How to Survive Study Abroad and “Choque Cultural” (Culture Shock) in Spain

1. Accept the fact that you stick out like a sore thumb. If you’re an American like myself—there’s no way you can get around the fact that when you order a beer, you can hardly pronounce “cerveza”, and that you don’t cross the street when the sign is still red like everyone else. I’m not saying it’s a terrible thing to be a foreigner—it’s all a part of the process and the experience. But please, don’t fight it. Let the hiccups happen—and try your best to walk away from awkward miscommunications with locals and other unfortunate mishaps with your head held high.

      2. Get ready to get lost. Spain (Barcelona in particular) is something of a maze—different barrios here and there, hidden treasures, hidden street signs…you make one wrong turn and poof! You’re lost. Take a deep breath—there’s a metro stop every couple of blocks, you’re bound to get home. In the meantime, take a walk, look at the architecture, get some gelato. You’re in Spain for crying out loud.

       3. Walk quickly. The Spanish are not a people known for dawdling. If you’re that obnoxiously oblivious dipstick in the metro that walks as slow as a turtle, you’re going to piss a couple Spaniards off.

       4. People stare—get over it. Stare right back. It’s a cultural thing.

      5. Couples practically have sex in public. Lips are locked on street corners, in cafes, in the seat next to you on the train—it’s normal. And while Fabio’s hands are wandering in places not suitable for PG13 viewing and Lolita is sticking her tongue in rather unusual locations—don’t stare. This is the one time you keep to yourself, ‘cause even though the hot and heavy love birds may be close enough to hear lips smacking, YOU’RE the weird one if you watch. Don’t be a creepy American.

      6.   I hope you have some thigh muscle. Not only does everyone walk everywhere in Spain, but I guarantee that even if you’re staying in a hostel/hotel, you’re gonna have some stairs to climb. Eight flights and 64 steps are what separate the ground floor of my building and my apartment.

 

      7.  Don’t complain. It’s ugly. Don’t be that person that stands around all day whining and crying over the fact that people eat super late, there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom, the metro is hot, everything is served with meat, or that water is more expensive than wine. Get over yourself! You’re here to experience the culture—so get out of your comfort zone and peel off your preppy, over pampered, spoiled American skin -- and eat a fricken plate of ham.

8.      

      8. Everyone’s going to tell you to eat more. “¡Come más, come más!” Whether you’re with a host family or visiting a friend of a friend—they want to see you eat yourself into an absolutely blissful Spanish food coma. Now's not the time to watch your girlish figure. Get used of it—again; it’s a cultural thing.

9. Don’t worry too much about your boo back home. I know—you love them, and yes, I know it’s hard. But trust me—if it’s meant to be- it will be, and your Romeo or Juliet will be happy to see your newly culturally diverse little face when you return!

   10.  When you sincerely do feel like the whir and rush of the city and Spanish life is too much and too different for you (honestly, culture shock is real at times)—relax. Things are different for a reason. Try to look at the logic behind why things are the way they are, and why people do what they do in this part of the world. This is a (possibly) once in a lifetime experience—enjoy it.

¡Besos y buena suerte!

--A

Day 18: An American perspective--How beautiful is Spain

En el Palacio de Gaudi--Astorga

Dear friends,

This post is going to be a bit hair brained-- I'm all over the map today. Too many thoughts to keep track of.

I was feeling especially brave today.

Having cut my hair with a pair of elementary school scissors and re-inserted an earring into a closed hole—I feel like a new woman.

I have always been an overly cautious person. Constantly worrying. Afraid of pain, afraid of losing loved ones, afraid of change.

I know I sound gross, but I’m honest.

College lessened this innate fear and worry, but not enough. When I went to Argentina in January of this year I was an absolute mess. I was miserable for most of the trip and incredibly ill. I felt as if I had lost my entire world back home, and that I would be stuck in the abyss of inner city Buenos Aires for the rest of my life.

I was there for three weeks, more or less.

This is all very laughable now, seeing how dramatic my reaction was, but at the time my fear and distress was astonishingly strong and real. I know now that what I was experiencing was a severe yet breif form of culture shock—and I find myself hundreds of times more comfortable here in Barcelona than I found myself in Buenos Aires.

En la Casa Panero--Astorga

I do not think my comfort has anything to do with the different cities. I want to stress this fact. I know that experience has provided with better bearings— perhaps less American-ness, and maybe more of an open mind. I have spent my young life vainly expressing and displaying myself as an “open-minded” person. How naïve of myself to proclaim such an admirable quality when I had never really needed to be open-minded in a world so familiar to me.

I just finished reading this fantastic article provided to me by BCA. The article was in the back of a packet given to the group that expressed different safety guidelines, directions for what to do when one is ill, and other more or less “helpful tips” for when one is staying in Barcelona for an extended period of time.

En la Casa Panero--Astorga

“TRAVEL ALERT – leave your tacky togs, instant coffee, and type-A behavior at home so you won’t be…A Pain In Spain” – Bold black letters entitle this work but the utterly amusing Gary Smith. After a quick Google search and some good ol’ fashioned stalking, I found that Smith is actually a sportswriter for none other than Sports Illustrated, and has been working for said magazine since 1983. Wikepedia tells me Smith is something of an “hyper-sensitive” – or rather someone who takes their interviews from simple face value to core, emotional writing. Apparently Smith’s intuition is something to be admired—however much I dislike the tad bit of sexism and body bashing Smith unfortunately included—I found Smith’s article extremely entertaining and hilariously accurate in regards to the Spanish culture I have so far experienced.  Not to mention it was the only piece of “information” I took to heart when going through my welcome packet.

I mention Smith’s article primarily to express my absolute shame at being Smith’s “Ugly American” through and through. No matter whom you are—if you’re not originally from the culture you are currently in, I’m sorry—you stick out. Period.

I am a young, feminine, female that has often been told I have an appearance similar to that of a “European”. I used to find that funny—now I take it as an extreme compliment. I WISH I was a European, I wish I was Spanish. Truly, not just by heritage (as I am). It is not enough for me to simply wear my jewelry and let my auburn hair fall around my shoulders as many of the other Spanish girls do. It is not enough to buy parachute style pants and wear my purse across my body. It is not enough that I am attempting to master a Barcelonan/ Catalan/ Castellan accent… I am American. I must accept this fact—and not in defeat! I should be riotous in thanks and gratefulness as I have so suffered from the safety of my home, my friends, my family—familiarity in general. It is high time that I am unaware of the waters that surround me; it is time for me to swim in any general direction and to GET LOST. Although Smith admits to having a mishap or two during his stay in Spain, I feel her spends to much time shaming the reader for being such an "Ugly American"..."don't screw up! Play it cool, 'tranquilooo!'..." is the main theme in Smith's work...when really, you are going to screw up, and you aren't going to be able to play it cool, and you are going to get REALLY sick of hearing people say "tranquilo"...I AM calm. 

Furthermore:

It is OK to be lost.

You have to first lose yourself to then find yourself—this is something I have recently added to my daily mantra(s). It's also okay to screw up and to be an "Ugly American"--this process is necessary. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I wade through the thick Spanish air with my shackles of state side glory. 

On another note, I am falling in love with my host family and the idea of family in general. Happiness is something manifested within but also necessary to be emulated outward. This house is boiling and bubbling over with the laughter of a small nieta named Ciza. Soft blonde hair crowns the angelic two year old face of the granddaughter of my host mother, Pilar. Ciza brings absolute and pure joy into this house. My host brother Joan and his petite French girlfriend Yuna are all smiles as they watch this little rambunctious toddler teeter and yelp at the world’s wonders: shiny forks and pen caps, coffee tables and crumply family photos. Everything is a mystery to this beautiful, innocent mind. Beautifully innocent.

"The Bubble Man" 

En el Palacio de Gaudi--Astorga

Pilar’s daughter Barbara is visiting from “The Mountains” as everyone en casa refers to where she lives. Barbara is magnificently simple—elegant in every possible definition of the word. She sits quietly and with a subtle aura that permeates the room. Spanish olive skin is even and youthful as it climbs up Barbara’s long neck and spreads over her make-up less face. A pile of thick, night-black hair sits on top of Barbara’s head in a loose bun—tendrils spilling out from every corner that frames her perfectly proportional face. White teeth shock and break the pattern of her tan face, and almond shaped hazel eyes dawn the tiara of vision on Barbara.

I openly laugh as I write this description —lesbihonest, right?

In all seriousness, more than Barbara’s physical beauty I am in awe of her tranquility and softness, and the stunning nature of her relationship with her little cherub of a daughter. This is all I could ever want for my own life: an admirable demeanor, tranquility in my life—surely from happiness and love, and child to love so far beyond my current capacities.

How beautiful is Spain, how beautiful is Spain.

Until next time,

Besos

--A

Day 17: Sunflowers

Dear friends,

I apologize in advance for the quality of this post. I find my self in a murky fog, struggling to stay awake, yet unable to find sleep. I figured I'd retreat to something comforting such as this (I must admit I have taken quite a liking to this public display of my thoughts/experiences--not sure if that makes me incredibly vain or just another product of mass media and social networking culture-- regardless I am pleased within my new found comfort).

This weekend BCA (my study abroad program) took us on a historical voyage to Castillo y Leon (with many stops along the way) to learn more about different centuries and eras and their architectural stylings/ social implications. To say the least it was incredible, and I will be sure to write more about Leon later...for now my misty mind forbids me from new work, and so I want to share a journal entry I wrote while en route to Leon from Barcelona:

"Riding in what looks like a large tourist bus with nine other twenty years olds...going through the Spanish country side on the way to Castillo y Leon.

Vineyards line either side of shimmering gray asphalt-- we click along for miles- hours - attached to the road like a train on its tracks. I imagine hot purple and red grapes bathing in collectively quiet sun rays.

We are wading through thick, warm wine, flashing past an era so much different than our own.

Wind chimes dance and mingle in my head as I let the lush and lavish scene play out before me:

Piercing blue skies rest as a perfectly complimentary background for the indigo mountains-- topped with white and gray frost, as if they had been turned upside down and gently dipped into an egg white creme.

Finally, for the first time in my life, I am a traveler.

I have been outside my country before-- but only for short periods of time-- and never "alone".

Although now I am in a group, I still feel independent, and I cling onto this independence with white knuckles-- a poor man hungry for brass and gold--eyes glistening with rapturous greed, 'more, more, more'...in finding myself I am becoming content.

The only thing I am in want of at this time is my other half. And as sure as I am that this is a completely natural feeling, I can't tell you how unnatural it feels to not be able to reach out in the safety of the black night and touch equally as dark black curls for comfort. Or how disgusting it is for me to know that I have at least three more months before I am able to once again lay in complete bliss-- knowing I am in the presence of someone who makes makes me feel as though I am timeless.

I close my eyes now and see, as from an aerial view, our beings wrapped in a transparent cocoon of sparkling dust that sets in our skin, creating a shield of unawareness, of perfect ignorance to the outside world. I can only see the world in shaded and shadowed colors when it is not crystal within the clarity of our own space.

I know that if he were here, he would appreciate everything about the magic of this trip, just like I am. And I know that he wants me to have fun and feel as though I have accomplished something by the end of my journey. I want that too.

I also hope to return as a "better" version of myself. Perhaps one of the best if not the best things I have discovered about traveling so far is having the time and the change of both perspective and climate (literally) to be able to look at oneself in a different light.

To be blunt-- its hard to properly evaluate yourself. One is always biased in the opinion of oneself-- it is simply natural.

To be more blunt-- it's hard to admit when you are wrong.

Being away has helped me begin to look at both of these hardships, and with my new perspective I hope to improve myself and slowly become the person I would like to eventually be. Tranquility comes over me in waves now, letting me know that I have exhausted all my current thoughts.

I now pass through a bursting sea of sunflowers-- yellow-gold petals roll and unfold onto olive hills, caressing each concave dip and embracing the horizon with a kind of other worldly clarity-- I take this as a sign to enjoy the view and put my pen down until next time."

Besos

--A

Barcelona-- week one

It has been 10 days now that I have been "living" in Barcelona.

I put "living" in quotes to connote the fact that I am not a resident civilian...yet. I still feel my heart racing when I try to make it to the metro. I feel that I stand out when I don't cross the street at the same instant that all the other natives do. I know I'm the biggest American eye-sore in the room when I have trouble ordering a Stella.

I know all of this is a part of the "process", but man, they don't tell you about the absolute desperation you feel to be a part of a culture you've never seen before.

En Passeig de Gracia

Or maybe that's just me.

Even with all these obstacles that frustrate me beyond compare...I find myself wandering down Passeig de Gracia feeling more at home than I ever have in my life.

I touched pillars made by Gaudi himself in the Park Guell and felt an absolute shock and realization that this was somewhere I had been before.

I have always wanted to see Gaudi's works since I was a little girl. When I was in fourth or fifth grade, my teacher showed us a photo of the Casa de Batllo. I remember telling myself that I would one day touch that house. In high school I wrote an essay on the works of Gaudi for a Spanish course. My second year of college I made a presentation of his collective works within the city of Barcelona and how magical the city was.

And now I am here.

I can't express how surreal this experience is. I talk to loved ones, I try to tell them-- but then again I really don't try. I feel that it is almost in vain to try to express the distinct de-ja-vu I feel every time I leave my fourth floor apartment, using my ancient skeleton key to pry the downstairs door open, walking in brisk morning air-- falling into the sea of the morning rush.

Casa Batllo

I don't know how to tell my mom that when I run down into the metro, I am a fish. I don't know how to tell her that when I am apart of the school of my fellow fish I feel completely comfortable, that this was something I knew I had done a million times before. That when we all round the corner to make the next train, I feel the same pulse and electricity that the other fish do, and I am apart of the same sea.

I am incapable of explaining to my lovely boyfriend that when I swim in the Mediterranean, it isn't for the first time.That when I lay in the Spanish sun, I am the Spanish sun. I am the Catalonian rays. As I float and drift across the gentle, salty sea, I feel as though I am being held in my mother's arms. That when I dive beneath the blue- green blanket I am only water too-- and that makes me so much larger than myself.

I know that this sounds...desperate. Almost "put-on". Desperate, yes. But fake, not in the least-- I wish this was a faulty feeling. The duality of feeling so ridiculously American yet inherently at home is confusing and dizzying in it's mildest form.

Parc Guell

As much as this feeling plagues me, it's also completely new and compelling...and I hope to wrap it around my and drown myself in it as I let the city inundate my body and infiltrate my mind. Cultural immersion isn't something that just "happens"...it's something you let happen--and I am so ready to accept spontaneous combustion in order to reborn from the ashes and perhaps be someone who knows more than one sky, knows more than one light and luminescence. One can only hope.

More to come later.

Besos,

A.